“The Luthiers Weep” by Sy Roth


He stole the violins.

A hair-greased-back Chanticleer
struts in his barnyard without fret
his seconds upon the stage
the violins stacked in the coop.
Worthy hens clucking lustily to play.

Venom spilled from lips dipped in Goethe
while Sonderstab Musik minions looted.
The Cornish hens played tunes to a smiling Chanticleer,
plucked Johann Straus waltzes for the wounded
squeaking out tender blessings to all.
Mahler, Mendelssohn and Martinu silenced,
as they stroked the slender necks and bulbous hips
keeping State secrets in their dancing bows.

The Others shambled to cattle cars
relegated to the ash heap,
unworthy chickens
musicking on only their anguish intact,
long-playing sadness pecked out on discarded millet.

Sounds devolved,
disappeared into the thickness of hate.

The luthiers weep.